


a walking song

by wearethewitches



Series: there's no knowing where you'll be swept off to [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Adopted Children, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Canon Era, Episode Remix, Gen, Henry is a Little Shit, Light Angst, POV Emma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 06:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18026519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: “Are you Emma Swan?” he asks, startling her. Emma frowns at him, hearing the crackle of paper. Looking down, Emma sees a piece of paper in his hand, obviously a kind of print-out. Circled in black pen near the top is an address.Her address.“Were you looking for her?”“Are you Emma Swan?” he repeats.-[or, here we go again, all the way at the beginning with season one, episode one: Pilot]or, Henry Mills is a relentless bugger, Emma is more parent-material nowadays and Regina just wants her son to love her; + a bonus Roland in a onesie.





	a walking song

“He was a very good boy,” Kira says, running a hand through his hair fondly. “Weren’t you, Ro-Ro?”

“I was good!” Roland exclaims, all teeth as he grins.

“That’s great,” Emma wiggles her fingers in a _gimme_ motion, smiling widely when the older woman hands over her son. “How was Vancouver, buddy? Did you see the snow?”

“Lot’s of snow! We made _angels_ ,” Roland says in an awed hush, gripping her red leather jacket tightly. “Nana Kira says my daddy’s an angel in Heaven.”

Emma immediately stiffens, eyes flashing. “She said what?”

“It was just an off comment,” Kira explains, wincing. “I didn’t think he’d be so…enthusiastic, about it.”

“We go see Daddy’s bench in the park on Thursdays!” Roland tells her, not picking up on the tension between Emma and Annabel’s mother. Emma gives the woman a warning glance and gets an apologetic one in return, before Jacob wanders back over from where he’d been chatting with Kira’s husband and Annabel’s father, Jonathan.

“Hey, what’s up?” Jacob questions brightly, dumb as a bag of bricks. Emma fixes a smile on her face.

“Nothing. Roland was just telling me how he much of a good boy he was over the weekend. Personally, _I_ think that means someone deserves a treat,” Emma says mischievously. Roland gasps in excitement, feet kicking a little before Emma adjusts her hold on him, setting the young boy on her waist. “Doesn’t that same someone have a birthday coming up? Are you turning…four?”

“Please!” Roland begs, “Treat! Treat!”

“Hmm…” Emma taps her chin with her free hand, grinning. “I don’t know – it’s kind of late. It’d have to be something we could do for the birthday boy on his birthday…”

“How about a party?” Jacob suggests, his father-in-law grumbling along in agreement, eyes locked on Roland. “We could even invite you guys to come along,” he glances at Kira and Jonathan.

“That’s a bit short-notice,” Emma shakes her head, “and you’re all off to Mexico for the extended family cruise by then.”

Jacob looks crestfallen. “You said you didn’t want to come. There’s no room on the yacht for you both, now,” he says, devastated. “What are you doing for his birthday, then?”

“I was thinking cake of some kind and maybe something with fur,” Emma replies with a smirk. Kira’s eyebrows rise up, before a worried frown takes its place.

“Really? You don’t think it’s too much responsibility? Your job and Ro-Ro…”

“I told you, this was my last gig,” Emma shuffles Roland on her hip. “I’ve got the temp apartment for a reason. This time next year, Roland and I should be hitting it up in Queens, New York.”

“Mommy, are we going home, now?” Roland interrupts.

“Sure, _spourgíti_. It really _is_ late – even later than I thought it was,” Emma amends when she catches sight of her watch. “You’re lucky you’re on Canadian time, or you’d be conked out by now.”

“So, this is goodbye for a while, then,” Jacob pouts, before wrapping his arms around the both of them. “Have fun here in Boston for us.”

“Promise,” Emma jokes, eyes slipping shut. “I’ll see you around, Jacob.”

“ _Bye, Uncle Jake,_ ” Roland says, voice muffled from where he’s pressed up against his shirt. When Jacob steps back, Kira moves in to kiss Roland’s cheeks and speak to him in a baby voice, parchment lips soft against Emma’s cheek as she bids them farewell. Jonathan bops Roland’s nose once, telling him to behave and come visit them again soon.

“Oh, Emma?” Jacob says right before they leave, smiling slightly. “Check your bank account. Happy birthday.”

Then, the three depart in their personal cab, leaving Emma standing outside her apartment building, Roland’s suitcase at her feet. It’s been nearly four years since Robin returned to the Enchanted Forest – three since Emma asked Jacob to put an end to the monthly payments. There’s enough of it saved up to get Roland through college twice over. Nowadays, his money only comes to them on special occasions, like holidays and birthdays.

“…your uncle is annoying,” Emma comments to Roland as she picks up his suitcase and her bag, remembering to take out her building keys before she gets bogged down by bags.

“No, he isn’t,” Roland giggles.

“Yes, he is,” Emma says.

“No, he isn’t.”

“Yes, he is.”

The argument goes back and forth all the way up the elevator to her floor, silly grins on their faces as they walk down the corridor. Roland is on what must have been his fortieth repetition of _no, he isn’t_ when Emma sees the figure in front of their door, slumped on the floor with a backpack between their knees.

“Mommy?” Roland blinks when she doesn’t reply, Emma shushing him as she steps back slightly out of sight, peering down the corridor.

 _That’s a kid,_ Emma realises after recognising the figure is too small to be an adult. They’re too far away for her to see any details, but she can see a red-striped scarf and a thick, dark grey coat you might see in a fancy fashion catalogue. _Rich kid. Please don’t be one of the softball Little League whose run away from home, please don’t be one of the softball Little League…_

Setting Roland down, she crouches beside her son and puts her finger to her lip, pressing his hands to the suitcase.

“Stay here until I call, okay?”

“Okay,” Roland whispers. Trusting him, Emma stands up, making her way down the corridor. The closer she gets, the more distress she feels radiating off them. By the time she’s at their feet, it’s clear to her that they’re crying.

Emma crouches again, right in front of them. Her hair falls around her face, long and curly with half a can of hairspray keeping it like that; her red leather jacket creaks dangerously and under her shirt between her breasts is a swan keychain and a wedding ring on a chain. The kid – the boy, who has mousy brown hair and a familiar face – looks up, sniffling and his face just kind of… _stops._

“Hey. Who are you, kid?”

“Are you Emma Swan?” he asks, startling her. Emma frowns at him, hearing the crackle of paper. Looking down, Emma sees a piece of paper in his hand, obviously a kind of print-out. Circled in black pen near the top is an address.

Her address.

“Were you looking for her?”

“Are you Emma Swan?” he repeats, more determined. He sits up straighter, wiping his face with the back of his hand and Emma kind of leans back, baffled at this kid sitting outside her apartment at eleven at night.

“Yeah,” she answers. “Who are you?”

In his hand, the paper in crumpled into a ball and his face slowly lightens, pure happiness radiating from him as he smiles.

“My name’s Henry. I’m your son.”

* * *

 

After Robin was taken, Emma thought a lot about giving Roland up. She would never, she really _would never_ – but she thinks about it. She’s done it before. Emma gave up Neal’s child for their own good, to give them a better life and in truth, it fucked her up for a long time. She’s still fucked up over it. Not even having Roland ever really repaired that.

Having Roland actually made it worse, in some respects.

Emma started calling them Bobbie, in her head. Bobbie-Barbara was a dream, a little girl with Emma’s blonde hair and Robin’s nose – but the name Bobbie on its own becomes something different to Emma, _someone_ different. Bobbie becomes the anonymous child who she gave up for adoption, who kicked her in the kidneys hard enough to puke and taught her something crucial she never understood about the system, before.

Then Emma tells Roland. Roland, who doesn’t understand why he’s never met Bobbie but who knows that neither of them will ever see them. Roland, who adds a blank stick figure only a little taller than himself to his drawings of their family, standing beside his crude drawings of his father, at a distance from the rest of them.

Annabel was the first and only person to find out who Bobbie was, when Roland became too overt about knowing. Whenever he mentioned Bobbie out of Emma’s hearing and within Annabel’s, she became the one who redirected the curious listeners. Not even Jacob is aware of the full story.

Emma wants and does not want to know if they’re content, if they’re still in the system, if their closed adoption worked out for them. Emma is not _happy_ in her ignorance, fully aware of the horrors the American foster-system can birth, but she knows it could have been worse – she at least knows they were adopted, first. They have a name that probably isn’t _Bobbie_.

In all honesty, Emma never wants to meet her firstborn child – but Henry has taken that out of her hands.

He looks at Roland with wounded betrayal, now. Roland is oblivious to his emotional turmoil, staring at him in a fashion that pre-dates bedtime, while also incorporating Roland’s own happiness at the fact that he has a brother. Henry though – Henry is hurt. Emma can imagine it with her own parents, turning up on their doorstep and finding they moved on. She would be shaken as well, which is why she gives both of them a moment to process by stepping into her bathroom.

“Shit,” she breathes. “ _Shit._ ”

Where are his adoptive parents? Why did he come find her? Who the heck tracked her down? Emma works in bail-bonds or she did, before tonight’s last job and she knows a thing or two about tracking people down with zero to nothing. No way the kid had her identity revealed – only a judge has that power and unless he has a life-threatening medical condition, Emma can’t think of any other situation there would be to do so. If that was even the case, his parents would be here, not him.

Giving herself a few more moments to get her shit together, Emma breathes, returning to the kitchen to get Roland a cup of milk before bed. He drinks it mechanically, still staring at Henry, who has raided her fridge for orange juice and her damn birthday cupcake.

“That was mine,” Emma frowns at him. “Ever heard of being polite, kid?”

“Ever heard of not giving up your kid?” he shoots back, clearly pissed as he bites into her cupcake. Emma glares at him.

“That. Was. Mine,” she repeats, angry. “Where the hell are you from? Why are you here?”

“I want you to come home with me.”

“That’s not an answer,” Emma replies, voice stern. “Tell me where you’re from, Henry.”

“Storybrooke, Maine,” he replies, scarfing down the rest of her cupcake. Emma’s brain fires, knowing somehow that he hasn’t eaten. Shaking her head, she goes to her cupboards, getting out a Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese.

“Mommy?” Roland questions as she gets together everything she needs to cook, “Are we having dinner?”

“Henry’s having late dinner, Ro,” Emma says, inwardly questioning Henry’s answer. _Storybrooke? Really? I mean, he wasn’t lying, but that’s just so…out of a fairytale._ “Are you ready for bed, kiddo?”

“Uh-huh,” Roland mumbles, finishing his milk. “Can I have late dinner too?”

“No, kid. Go get into your pyjamas. Leave your socks on.”

“Are we going in the Bug?”

Emma puts the hob on. “After Henry eats. We’re going to take him home and you’re going to fall asleep in your little boy seat.”

“Big boy seat,” Roland protests, sliding off the island table seat and coming over to grip her jeans. “Please.”

“You can’t fall asleep in the big boy seat,” Emma replies, hoisting him up to give him a kiss. “Go put on your soft onesie.”

“Soft onesie,” Roland repeats as she puts him down, scampering off to their room. The Boston apartment is way too small for them both, but it’s only meant to be temporary, so Emma hadn’t put much thought into it – Roland grew up in the Tallahassee apartment, which while more spacious than this one, hadn’t a lot more square footage. It probably had less, actually.

Henry watches her from the island table. “Why aren’t you more panicky?”

“Because I’m good at keeping my cool,” Emma replies, not looking at him. “Trust me when I say that I’m fuming inside.”

“Where’s Roland’s dad?”

“Not here.”

“Is he dead?”

“No,” Emma says in a clipped voice. “What about you? Got a dad?”

“Nope, just an evil mom,” Henry replies. “Is Roland’s dad in prison?”

“No. Roland’s dad had to go home. He lived in another country. He couldn’t stay here.” Emma says, asking him, “Why did you leave your mom behind? Because she’s evil?”

“Yes.”

“What does she do? Starve you? Lock you up?” Emma glances back at him, not surprised to see his startled face. “Thought so. She takes care of you.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t love me,” Henry gets up, putting the cupcake wrapper in the bin and putting his glass in the sink, joining her by the stove. “I’ve never had pasta from a box before.”

“This stuff is fake as,” Emma replies, “but it fills you up. You’ll eat until you’re comfortable, then we’ll head off. Is Storybrooke on the map?”

“Yeah, but it’s hard to get to. I’ll have to show you the way,” Henry says, voice full of… _something._ It’s like he knows something she doesn’t and Emma isn’t sure she likes it. “Is Roland’s dad my dad?”

Emma’s breath catches.

A lump appearing in her throat, Emma ponders whether or not to lie. Robin isn’t coming back and if he did, he- he would gladly call himself Henry’s dad, so Neal never had a chance to claim him. Robin always hated Neal and after a little while, Emma understood why. Neal never said how old he was, but he was definitely a lot older than her – she was barely seventeen when they met, if that. She wasn’t legal the first time they had sex, in any case.

“Is he?” Henry questions her again, voice wistful and wanting. Emma stirs the pasta, shrugging.

“We got married later. I was only eighteen when I had you, kiddo – I wanted you to have a better chance. Roland’s dad did, too. He agreed it was the right thing for me to do.” _Which is true, but a little backwards. You’re a liar by omission, Swan._ “I’ll be honest with you; I don’t think you or Roland will ever get to meet him.”

Henry’s heart-eyes dim. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

Emma looks at him, blinking a little. “What?”

“I’m sorry you won’t get to see him, either,” Henry says in a surprising show of intelligence. His hand comes to rest on her arm, as if in emotional support. “Did you have rings?”

“Yeah,” Emma says, reaching up to pull out her chain. She shows him the band, thinking it strange to have another child so close to her. His shoulder brushes her bent arm as he peers closely, eyes tracing the knot engraving on the outside of it.

“What’s the writing on the inside?” he asks.

“It’s something I got done after he was taken,” Emma tells him, carefully twisting it so he can read as she speaks the quote aloud. “‘Until the stars are all alight’. It’s from a book – a song from a book. The movies changed it up a lot and I sing part of it to Roland before he goes to bed, sometimes.”

“What was it from?” Henry asks, “I don’t recognise it.”

“Ever read _Lord of the Rings?_ ” Emma asks, knowing the book series itself a little dry for a ten year old – but he might have seen the movies. “Watched it?”

“Nope,” Henry shakes his head. “Storybrooke’s kind of…frozen in time, almost. We don’t have new movies or books.”

“Oh, the books aren’t new,” Emma assures him, turning back to the pasta. “Hey, do you mind checking on Roland? He’s quiet, but this is too quiet. If he’s fallen asleep, just leave him.”

“Okay,” Henry says, whizzing off. The comparison between the Henry now and the Henry on her doorstep is wild, the difference staggering. _Sounds like a little town,_ Emma thinks distantly, _probably never ran away properly before. Everyone probably knows him._

Henry and Roland don’t reappear for another few minutes, which is all the pasta needs to finish cooking. While Emma is dishing up, they come out hand-in-hand, Roland in his onesie and sleep socks with pads on the feet to stop him slipping on the ceramic tile on top.

“Henry helped,” Roland says, before Emma steals him, feeling clingy in the wake of Henry’s reappearance, for whatever reason. Setting him up on the island, fiddling with the fluffy fabric of his pyjamas that are covered in silver stars, Emma waits for Henry to dig in. His nose wrinkles after a few bites, but he also has that look of someone discovering junk food – he practically inhales the plateful.

“When _was_ the last time you ate?” she asks.

“Lunchtime,” he says, before pausing. “I had a granola bar on the bus, too.”

Emma suddenly realises she has no idea how far away this ‘Storybrooke’ is and finds herself glad that Roland has a suitcase already packed, in case this turns into a mini vacation to the middle of nowhere.

“You should have thought further ahead than a granola bar,” Emma says, watching him make a miserable face.

“I know, but I was too nervous. I planned on going earlier in the morning, but my teacher nearly saw me leaving at breaktime, so I waited till lunch broke out before making my escape.”

“Wait,” Emma frowns, “You skipped school? Why not wait until the weekend, when your mom thinks you’re off at a friend’s house or something? Schoolteachers notice when you aren’t there, as well. You’re lucky you made it out of town without being caught.”

“I’m brilliant,” Henry says, smiling now. Belatedly, Emma realises her talk might have seemed encouraging and tries to backtrack.

“You shouldn’t have done it in the first place. If you feel like your mom doesn’t love you, that’s for you to work out together.”

Henry’s smile disappears. “She’s _evil_. You don’t get it! You have to meet her to understand. She’s cold. She doesn’t care about me.”

“Are you sure about that?” Emma says, sceptical – but there’s a hint of doubt niggling in her mind. Henry isn’t lying. He really believes what he’s saying and usually, kids are transparent about this kind of stuff. They’re sponges, soaking up unsaid signals from all around them. Henry might be from money and might be treated well, but emotional neglect can be just as damaging as physical.

 _I do need to meet her,_ Emma decides, _even if I can’t do anything about it except report it to the cops. This incident alone would be enough for them to launch an enquiry – kids don’t go to these kind of lengths for no reason._

Henry is adamant. “Yes.”

“…alright,” Emma concedes defeat – for now. “Give me a couple of minutes to get some stuff packed up. Can you wash your dishes while you wait?”

“Sure.” Henry is immediately cooperative and Emma watches him for a few seconds, wondering at the kind of household he lives in if he does chores so easily – what kind of childhood he had and what nurturing his mother did. God knows she remembers more than a few bratty foster-kids who had tantrums over being asked to do the simplest of things. Did Henry grow up with songs before bedtime? Books? Cartoons? Did he go on walks or have a certain day he went to the park?

Setting Roland on the ground, Emma goes to her room, getting the basics together to shove in a sports bag. After a moment of hesitation, she even packs her straighteners and shower bag. It would be unfair to Roland to take him somewhere new and then drag him away immediately – it might have been a closed adoption, but Henry at least has the right to get to know his brother if he wants to and that’s the kind of negotiation that can take more than just a five minute conversation.

Emma sighs. It’s all complicated, now. What would Henry’s mother even think of her, bringing back her child in a beaten-up car with a toddler in the backseat?

“It’s good you guys are getting along,” she says to Henry when they get ready to go, Roland riding piggy-back while Emma takes their bags. Henry beams at her and she tries to ignore how it sends a bolt through her chest, one that makes her shake and fumble with her keys.

_He looks just like him._

* * *

Then-

“Every story in this book actually happened.”

-he says _that._

* * *

It’s after three AM. Roland is conked out in his car-seat, Emma wants to go to bed after an _incredibly_ long day and Henry is in the front seat, a book of fairytales he says are real on his lap. He sags backwards in his seat, clearly exhausted and Emma stops the car on what is clearly the main thoroughfare, looking up at the clocktower.

“Eight fifteen?” she asks.

“That clock hasn’t moved my whole life,” Henry explains. “Time’s frozen here.”

“Excuse me?” Emma raises an eyebrow, watching Henry rub his eyes with a small yawn.

“The Evil Queen did it with her curse,” he says. Emma almost writes him off until he continues and says _those two words._ “She sent everyone from the Enchanted Forest here.”

Emma freezes.

Henry, too tired to pay her any attention, snuggles up in his sat, holding his Book tightly. Emma looks at it intently, not understanding, brain not computing.

_The Enchanted Forest._

It could be a coincidence – it could not. Robin was _Sir Roland_ , once, becoming Robin Hood because he had a destiny to complete, a story to live out. Carefully, Emma reaches over, taking the Book from him. Henry stirs, sitting up when she finds the index, finger trailing down the titles. She wilts at the lack of Robin Hood.

“Oh,” she says, disappointed.

“What?” Henry barks. “Who were you trying to find? I’ve guessed who most of the people here are, but some I don’t know. Not everyone’s stories are in here.”

“Guessed?” Emma frowns at him. “You couldn’t ask?”

“It’s part of the curse,” Henry says, eyes wide. “They’re trapped here, frozen. No-one knows who they are. All the happy endings have been stolen and the Evil Queen is behind it all. Look!” Henry takes the Book back, flipping through till he comes to a stylised image of a cackling woman all in black, a pale-skinned, dark haired woman kneeling at her feet. “See? It says it all here!”

Emma stares at the picture. If that is the Evil Queen, the woman at her feet can only be Snow White and it reminds her why she came here in the first place. _Henry has to go home,_ she thinks, glancing back at the sleeping Roland. _And while I could sleep in a car fine, he can’t._

Making an executive decision to postpone this conversation, Emma shuts the Book, being careful of Henry’s fingers.

“It’s late, Henry. Ro needs a proper bed,” she tries to appeal to his newly-discovered brotherly feelings and it works, of course. Henry looks back at him guiltily. “Where’s your house, Henry?”

“…Mifflin Street,” he admits. “My mom has a guest bedroom.”

“Do you think she’ll let us stay for a bit?” Emma asks.

“If I ask,” Henry says and _oh_ , that is telling. Sitting up, Emma turns the Bug back on, her car probably grateful for the rest after driving non-stop for four hours. Henry guides her to Mifflin Street, but new thoughts are wedging their way into Emma’s brain.

_‘If I ask’._

_If Henry **asks**?_

Emma purses her lips subtly, grinding her teeth. _Oh kid,_ Emma thinks darkly, _if you think your mother doesn’t love you, then you’re not seeing how she’s trying. You’re a child – adults are infinitely more complex._ Maybe it’s the lack of sleep and she’s overthinking this, but Henry seems to be a bit of a black and white thinker, not much unlike Emma herself at his age.

They get to Mifflin Street, to the biggest, whitest house on the block. Henry, it seems, is the Town Rich Kid, not that he’s mentioned it to her during their short time together. The lights are off, except one of the rooms downstairs towards the back of the study, which is a good sign. The drive isn’t empty, either.

“How do you want to play this?” Emma asks him, glancing at Roland in the rear-view mirror. “He’s out cold. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to wait in the car while I go up, though.”

“She’s in her study,” Henry mumbles. “I’ve never seen her in there before. She only goes in there when I’m asleep.”

Emma has an uneasy thought. “Does your mom drink?” she asks, changing her mind about Henry not staying in the car as he nods, confused. “Okay. I’m going to go inside and make sure she’s alright while you wait here with Roland. Make sure he doesn’t wake up.”

“But you said-”

“Henry,” Emma interrupts, staring him down. “Stay here. You’re the one who says your mom is evil. Let me go deal with her.”

Henry grumbles, but nods. “Okay. But if she does something bad, you’ve got to take me away.”

“I’m not agreeing to that, but I’ll keep it in mind in case she’s not in the right state of mind to take care of you,” Emma says, before getting out of the car, trying to keep quiet. The sound of her door shutting seems especially loud in the silent morning. Emma walks up the path to the house, expression turning grim when she finds the front door unlocked.

Entering without permission, Emma takes a brief moment to eye up her surroundings. Everything is pristine and gleaming, but dark. She nearly trips on the front steps in the entryway, making her way towards the light that gleams through the living room.

“What are you doing in my home?”

Emma startles at the sharp voice, heart thumping in her chest. She looks around, finding a shadowed figure exiting the kitchen. Their hand rises, turning on a switch. Emma blinks through the abrupt change in lighting, the figure revealing themselves to be a decadent woman with short, windswept hair, dark, reddened eyes and an empty wineglass in hand.

When the woman, presumably Henry’s mother, sees her, her expression twists into one of confusion. “Who are you?” she asks, her words running over each other slightly. _Drunk,_ Emma identifies, turning to face her properly.

“Hi,” Emma breathes, “and this is going to get very complicated in a moment, but long story short, Henry’s fine.”

Instantly, the woman’s expression changes, eyes going wide and vulnerable, lips falling apart. “Henry?” she gasps. “Where is he?”

“Outside in my car,” Emma steps forwards, smiling tentatively. “I just wanted to make sure you were here before letting him run amuck. He seems to have a tendency for disappearing.”

“He does,” the woman – who Emma really wants to learn the name of – stumbles backwards slightly, moving into the kitchen. Emma follows her, watching as she puts her glass in the sink and takes the empty wine bottle on the worktop, placing it down by the back door with two others. “Is he alright?”

“Tired. Frazzled, maybe,” Emma admits, before stepping closer and offering her hand. “Emma.”

The other woman takes her hand with her opposing one, holding it tightly rather than shaking. It gives them a faux-closeness for the moment, as she speaks.

“Regina Mills, Mayor of Storybrooke.”

“Mayor?” Emma raises an eyebrow, “Wow, Henry really does not give anything away.”

Regina smiles tiredly. “He’s precocious. Intelligent. Rebellious.”

“You clearly love him a lot,” Emma says and her relief must give her away somehow, because Regina’s eyebrow twitches as it furrows. Their shared grip falls away.

“Who exactly are you? How did Henry end up in your care?”

“He took a bus to Boston,” Emma says, “then sat outside my apartment door till eleven at night waiting for me to get home. Tracked me down. Unfortunately, I was busy.”

Still frowning, Regina splays a hand across her worktop, looking Emma up and down in that familiar, judging manner of someone trying to get her measure.

“ _You?_ Why? Who are you really?” she demands, a certain fire appearing in her eyes that Emma dislikes, but tries not to. This moment was coming the moment Emma decided to take Henry home herself.

Looking away briefly, Emma feels guilt over the situation sink through her chest. “I’m Henry’s birth-mother,” she admits quietly. Regina looks like she’s been punched through the chest. “I would have sent him on a bus, but I figured he would have just gotten off and made off. I know it’s highly inappropriate for him to have contacted me like this.”

“How _did_ he contact you?” Regina asks, voice hardening. “Did _you_ seek him out? Give him your contact details?”

Emma’s eyes widen. “No! God no, I gave him up for a reason. It was a closed adoption. I asked for my name to be kept under lock and key so this exact thing didn’t happen. All I know is that he has a paper that he printed off – it had my address on it, my very _new_ address. You’re lucky he didn’t go to Florida instead.”

Her words obviously get through to the Mayor, who becomes far more subdued, nodding at the end of her speech.

“Your records were sealed – they said you didn’t want contact.

“You were told right,” Emma replies, before Regina nods again.

“I want to see him. He’s in your car, you say?”

Emma nods. “Yeah. I asked him to stay behind in case…” she trails off, glancing at the empty bottles by the door. Regina gives a tight smile.

“I can hold my liquor. Not all of those are from today, I assure you.”

“Cool,” Emma says awkwardly. “Sorry, I just wanted to make sure it was safe. I’m not- my background, part of the reason why I gave Henry up was because I didn’t have good role models myself.”

“Don’t worry yourself, I’m not offended,” Regina replies with a small smile. Emma is struck by how _genuine_ it is, the tilt of her head making Emma feel like she’s being included in something. “Thank-you for bringing him home.”

“No problem,” Emma gives Regina her own small smile, before the two women make their way towards the front door, pausing so Regina can put on a pair of heels. She wobbles slightly and Emma offers a hand, but Regina graciously denies it, leading her out into the dark.

Henry looks up when light pours out of the open doorway and Emma can see him sliding the Book away hastily, before he gets out and crosses his arms, standing stiffly as Regina embraces him tight. Emma feels sorry for her, wincing in advance upon seeing Henry’s fiery disposition.

“Are you okay? Henry, I was _so worried_ ,” she clutches his face, teary-eyed, but he shrugs out of her grasp violently.

“You’re not my real mom – Emma is,” he folds his arms crossly, looking away from her. Regina visibly dulls, while Emma…well.

Emma’s not having that.

“I’m really not,” she says curtly, attracting Henry’s attention. “Just because I gave birth to you doesn’t give me automatic rights – in actual fact, I gave them up, just like you.”

“Then why do you have Roland?” he asks, sullen.

“Roland?” Regina questions, glancing at Emma – but Emma is too busy arguing to answer.

“That’s an entirely different conversation and irrelevant, besides. You’re being rude to your mom, kid, really, _horribly_ awful. No wonder you think she’s evil – did she snap at you once for being a little shit?”

“Emma,” Regina hisses, immediately defensive. “Do _not_ call my son those kind of words.”

“It fits,” Emma says tartly, eyes on Henry as he glares at her.

“You’re supposed to _help_ me.”

“I _am_ ,” Emma replies.

Henry raises his chin. “I’m not asking her, then.”

Emma snorts, unable to help the slightly vicious grin. “Really? You’re going to try manipulate me? The adult? I’m responsible for the welfare of a three year old, which trumps the walking, talking ten year old.”

“Roland can talk _and_ walk,” Henry replies hotly, only for Regina to interrupt.

“Excuse me, what’s this about a three year old? What are you referring to?”

“Henry was going to emotionally blackmail you into letting us use your guest room,” Emma replies bluntly, figuring she’s hit the mark when Regina looks wounded, but not surprised. “But I think I’ll just be polite and ask you directly. My son, Roland, he’s asleep in the back of the car and I would really appreciate it if I could use your guest bedroom or even just get directions to some kind of hotel that would still take guests at this time of night.”

Regina’s eyes flicker back and forth between Emma and Henry briefly before settling on the Bug, eyes focusing on Roland in the backseat. He’s pretty easy to see and Emma watches Regina’s expression melt into something infinitely softer.

“I haven’t seen a child that young up close since Henry,” she says quietly, looking to Emma. “You’re welcome to stay the night, or what’s left of it. How long has he been asleep?”

Emma gives her an exhausted smile. “Longer than I’ll be, at this rate.”

“You’ve been driving all night for Henry’s benefit,” Regina scoffs, hand resting on Henry’s shoulder. “When does he wake up, usually? I can make him breakfast, let you sleep in.”

“Well, he’s on Canadian time, right now,” Emma does some quick calculations, “He was with his godparents’ parents for the weekend in Vancouver – he only got back home about ten minutes before I found Henry outside my door.”

“An interesting set-up,” Regina marks.

“Yeah,” Emma flashes her a wide smile. “He’ll probably be awake…five AM? Maybe six, depending on how soft your bed is. It’s going to be hell adjusting him back to normal time. You don’t have to wake with him though, it’s okay – I’ll just nap for a bit or play on my phone for an hour or two.”

“I can be awake at five,” Regina assures her. “Collect him, then come inside. I want to speak with my son before sending him to his own bed.”

Regina then steers Henry up the path to their home, leaving the front door ajar. Emma gets their bags first, making a quick trip to and from the entryway before unclicking Roland from his five-point harness. Oddly enough, it wakes him, an unusual event.

“Mommy?” he mumbles. “Where we?”

“Storybrooke, _spourgíti_ ,” Emma says, calling him by her own little nickname for him. _Ro-Ro_ was Kira’s creation, _Ro_ from Jacob – but _spourgíti_ , or ‘sparrow’ is from Emma and only Annabel picked it up, probably because she’s the only one who learnt Greek for them both. Emma knows Annabel likes to call Roland _lígo spourgíti_ , or ‘little sparrow’. “Henry’s home. Do you remember Henry?”

“Bobbie,” Roland murmurs, before wrapping his arms around her neck tightly as she lifts him up out of the Bug backseat, awkwardly twisting and pushing off the frame. Locking up the Bug, Emma readjusts her grip on Roland before making her way towards the Mills household.

In the entryway, a tight-faced Regina is picking up Roland’s suitcase, hand smoothing out the aeroplane sticker on the handle.

“Is Mr Locksley well?” she asks diplomatically.

“Awake enough to say hello,” Emma says, nudging him gently. “Hey Ro, look, it’s Henry’s mommy, Regina.”

Roland lifts his head, finding Regina and yawning quietly. “Pretty,” he says quietly, before dropping his head back on Emma’s shoulder.

“Yes, she is,” Emma agrees quietly, glancing at the woman in question, who looks adorably startled by Roland’s exclamation. “I’m sorry we have to impose on you like this.”

“…no, it’s fine. I would like a word with you, though, before you go to bed if possible,” Regina requests, Emma nodding.

_What’s another conversation?_

It only takes a few moments to set Roland down and tuck him in, Regina helping transport their small amount of luggage to the end of the bed. Once Emma’s comfortable leaving him there, she follows Regina out onto the landing, standing by the railing of the stairs.

“Henry implied that his father is alive and out there, somewhere,” she starts, thankfully clear in what she wants to discuss – even if it hurts Emma’s heart.

“I might have deceived him into thinking Roland’s father is his own,” Emma replies. “Trust me when I say it’s for a good reason. Neal took advantage of me when I was seventeen and too young to know better. He doesn’t know Henry exists, though if he did, it would only take basic maths for him to figure it out. He was the only one around at the time.”

“I see,” Regina says darkly. “And Roland’s father?”

Emma’s heart twinges. “Gone. He was taken – deported, sort of. A good guy. We were happy.”

A flash appears across Regina’s face like pain and sympathy. “The man I loved was killed,” she admits, “by my own mother, no less.”

“Jesus Christ,” Emma mutters.

Regina offers a wan smile. “Yes, well…it’ll be nice having you, briefly.”

_Briefly._

Emma swallows, smile fading. “Yeah. Briefly,” she echoes. There’s a long silence, before Emma broaches another subject, “Should we have some sort of…contact in place, in case he tries this again?”

Displeasure is obviously rampant across her face, but Regina gives a stiff nod. “Between you and me,” she says, clarifying. “And Henry and Roland, maybe.”

“But not us.”

“But not you,” Regina says, voice almost cold. “Henry has had difficulty accepting the fact that he’s adopted. He’s in therapy for his varied issues. I don’t want to set him back.”

“I think I was pretty clear about my intentions,” Emma states.

“You were,” Regina allows, dipping her head, “but I don’t want any… _confusion_. You understand, yes? Henry needs stability.”

“If I had any energy in my body, to be honest I would probably argue with you a little,” Emma admits, “but it’s not my place.”

“No. It’s not.” Regina steps back, giving a thin smile. “Have a lie in, Miss Locksley. Roland is welcome to join me for breakfast in the morning.”

“Swan,” Emma corrects.

“Pardon?”

Emma raises her chin. “I might have been married to Roland’s dad, but I didn’t take his name. My name’s Emma Swan.”

Regina stares at her with a strangely startled expression and then she nods, turning away from her.

“Goodnight, Miss Swan.”

**Author's Note:**

> 'Home is behind  
> The world ahead  
> And there are many paths to tread  
> Through shadow  
> To the edge of night  
> Until the stars are all alight
> 
> Mist and shadow  
> Cloud and shape  
> All shall fade  
> All shall fade' - Lord of the Rings, the Return of the King (film)


End file.
